Death and Other Philosophies
by Fear My Butterfly Army
Summary: Sam needed to be more like Dean to survive without him. Only, his inner Dean isn’t quite so stable as he thought. Set in the third month after Dean's death. Rated for language.


**A/N:**** Alright, so this is my first venture into writing for Supernatural. Actually, this is my first venture into writing ANYTHING in like, forever, so hopefully it turns out good. I have no beta, so pardon the stupid typos. Also, though I highly recommend the song 'No Sunlight', or any other Death Cab for Cutie song, I don't recommend them for this story because they kind of kill the mood. I just thought the lyrics were appropriate.**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own the boys. Or the show. Or anything, really, except part of my computer and all of my many things of chapstick and all my books and CDs. CW has got the first part covered and my parents have got the rest. Oh, and the lyrics so aren't mine. They belong to Death Cab for Cutie.**

**Warnings:**** My foul mouth. Or, rather, my characters' foul mouths. Whatever fits your fancy.**

**Summary:**** Sam needed to be more like Dean to survive without him. Only, his inner Dean isn't quite so stable as he thought.**

"_With every year that came to pass  
More clouds appear until the sky went black  
And now there's  
No sunlight,  
No sunlight.  
And now there's  
No sunlight,  
No sunlight anymore."_

_-No Sunlight, Death Cab for Cutie_

Ella wasn't easily shaken. Her mom had always told her that "god damn Hell could rise and you'd still be happy as a damn clam", which had been true, even through her childhood, even if her mom's penchant for exaggeration went a little wild on that one.

But that was one thing that had made her so good at her job. Not that it took a lot of skill to poor booze for rowdy middle-aged men 'till the wee hours of the morning, but every once in a while (read; at least once a night) some drunken idiot decided he was going to take out his fury at his skanky wife or shitty life on some other drunken idiot and a fight broke out.

It was a tiring, endless circle, but it was also an inevitable one.

So, Ella had trained herself to spot those trouble makers as they entered the bar. That way, she could make sure to cut them off before they got rowdy enough to cause a brawl. Because bar fights were messy and she _really_ hated having to bring out the shot gun.

Tonight she was watching the crowd, well aware that for whatever odd reason it was a quiet night, when she spotted him.

He was tall. Freakishly so, in fact, because down here in Georgia they just don't make 'em that big. His unruly brown hair hung about his face like he'd missed his last ten-or-so hair cuts and his eye bugged like spotlights on high-alert above dark bags of eyelids swollen with exhaustion. He moved with a lethal grace that had her spine tingling from base to tip, and when those dark eyes landed on her, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Sitting down on the stool closest to the door, like he needed to have easy access to an exit, he stayed silent for long enough that Ella was forced to tend to her other customers.

"So tell me, Ellie; what are you doin' tonight?"

The drunken southern drawl of Dave, a regular, had her rolling her eyes to the heavens and praying for patience. "I'm workin', Dave, just like I always fuckin' am on Thursdays."

Dave smiled at her sloppily, eyes falling to a spot about eight inches too low for her eyes. "Well, hows about you ask yer boss for the night off…" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Keep dreamin'." Ella glanced over at the stranger, hoping he would prove to be the excuse she needed to get away. He was no help.

"Come on, Ellie—"

"Ella, it's fucking Ella, Dave."

"Right, right, Ella. Whatever. _Ella," _he put obnoxious stress on her name, "the night's still young, and so are you." He winked in a way that would have been suggestive if he hadn't made himself dizzy doing it.

Irritated, Ella cast yet another glance at the unhelpful customers engaged in other conversation around the bar. Her eyes caught the strangers, but the gaze was broken a moment later when Dave's fangers snuck around her wrist.

Jerking away, she cast the man a nasty look, "Try it again, and I guarantee you won't be asking _nobody _out for a good time anytime soon."

Dave sighed, like she was being ridiculous, and reached for her again. "Come on Ell—"

"She said leave her alone."

His voice was a low, throaty rumble that broke through the noise of the bar easily enough that only Ella and Dave heard it. When the man had moved from his stool to beside Dave's, Ella couldn't say.

Both men lock gazes in some sort of feral male dominance thing. Looking the new guy up and down, Dave seemed to finally decide it wasn't worth the fight when he got up and turned back to Ella. "See you around, Ella." And he left.

The rest of the bar was none the wiser and the new guy took Dave's place. "I'm Sam."

Ella didn't say anything at first, instead just refilling another customer's drink. Once that was done, she turned back to him and set down the rag she had been wiping down a glass with. "Well, Sam, the chivalry is appreciated, but I get enough of that 'southern gentleman' crap from my dad, thanks."

Sam's mouth quirked, like it wanted to smile but couldn't quite make it. "A 'thanks' would have been sufficient."

"Right," Ella grunted, rolling her eyes, "_thanks. _Now can I get you something to drink?"

Making a smile that was so thin it was nearly a grimace, Sam shook his head. "Whatever's on tap."

She poured it for him and went back to her business.

A few minutes later, his voice called her back over. "Are you Ella Lane, by any chance?"

"Depends on why," she snorted, sighing as yet another customer stumbled out of the bar, leaving just a few stragglers behind.

"Well, I read about you in the newspaper."

Ella froze.

"So you_ are_ Ella Lane."

Glancing around to make sure nobody was listening, Ella leaned towards Sam, her jaw stubbornly set. "Look, _Sam, _I don't really care what you're here for. I was just a little shook up, is all. That was fucking psycho-babble, got it?"

He shrugged, "Didn't seem like psycho babble to me."

She appraised him for a minute. "What's your game?"

"Nothing," Sam shook his head, "No game. I just want to know what happened. Call it a hobby."

"Yeah, well that's a pretty sick hobby." Once again, Ella checked to make sure no prying ears were listening, "Like I said to the reporter; two months ago this local guy killed himself. Then, about a week ago when I was locking up, someone jumped me. When I saw his face, it was that dead kid. But I was just imagining things. Dead people stay dead."

Sam had seemed fine through the whole confession, but at the end he stiffened. When he spoke, it was a muttered growl that came through a clenched jaw and barely parted lips, "You'd be surprised."

Feeling wary once again, Ella picked up the rag she had set down and began wiping down parts of the counter. "Like I said, I was just spooked."

"Yeah, spooked. Look, Ella, you sure you didn't know the kid who killed himself? Any reason you would think he was attacking you?"

She shook her head, "Not personally. I mean, he snuck in here with his buddies every once in a while like all the high schoolers around here, but they don't even do that much considering they always get kicked out."

Sam still didn't look relaxed and Ella refilled his glass.

"What was the kid's name?"

"Jake Reddy." Ella poured herself a glass of water and downed half of it before looking back up at the odd man at her bar.

"So why did he kill himself?"

Anger rose in Ella suddenly. Sam's odd questions were just downright prying now. And all for some twisted hobby of his. "I don't fucking know, okay? I didn't know the damn kid! He was seventeen and I'm twenty-five; not exactly in the same social groups. Why don't you get your sick fix off some other town's tragedy?"

In a surprising act of anger, Sam sprang to his feet and leaned over the bar, bracing himself on his long arms and leaning in close to Ella. "You have no idea about who I am."

"Oh, really?" Ella growled, refusing to back down despite the shivers creeping up her spine. "I know you're some kind of sick nut that gets off on innocent people's pain."

Sam retreated, his face registering shock, before turning back to anger. "I save lives," he roared, hands coming down with an echoing _BANG_ on the bar, "I do what's right."

It was then that Ella realized the bar had emptied whilst she wasn't paying attention.

"It's not my fault all of this shit happens!" Sam's hands were clenching the bar's wood hard enough Ella swore it would leave fingerprints. His voice trembled with rage. "I'm just trying to do some fucking good! _Don't you get it?!"_

No. No, she didn't. But hell if she would admit it.

"I'm not some '_sick nut'_," he spat the words like venom, and if she didn't know better Ella would swear she heard some measure of hurt in his tone, "I'm a god damn hero. I just can't save everyone, alright?"

"O-okay," Ella nodded, her hands searching beneath the bar for her shotgun.

The transformation was complete and sudden. It was as if one moment Sam was a towering pillar of fury and the next he was a wounded man, desperate to make up for his faults. "God," he groaned, running a hand through his chocolate hair, "Well, great. Sorry, Ella. Sorry."

Her hand left the shotgun, but didn't stray too far. She said nothing.

"Thanks for the…" he trailed off, indicating his nearly full beer. Then, without another glance, he dropped a ten on the counter and left the bar.

It was utter silence that followed in his wake.


End file.
